Like Riddles Etched In Stone
by Aegle
Summary: Life leads to a discovery of truths, both undeniable and harsh. An account of Remus Lupin's life after the fall of the Dark Lord and all that he encounters along the way.
1. Prologue

_**Title: **Like Riddles Etched in Stone_

**_Summary:_ **The life of Remus Lupin from the fall of Voldemort until the obtainment of a teaching position at Hogwarts, this is the story of a man trying to find peace and freedom in a world that will not allow it.

**_Author's Notes:_** To those of you who had given up on me, I must apologize and say I lied when I told you I would be writing several one-shots. In fact, I will not be writing any, at least that I can forsee at this point. No, instead, shortly after finishing Raison D'etre, this story came to me like a nagging fly buzzing right beside my ear, and within a few weeks, I had the basic outline, which I am still going over now. So, I am afraid, I am presented with a colossal tale that will not leave me alone until I complete it. The missing years of Remus's life greatly interests me, and so I put my mark on it in story-form. I can only tell you this much right now: it took _a lot_ of research about foreign cultures. I have written the prologue to the story, and hope to have the first chapter up as soon as time allows. I give you my word I will stick with this story, but updating may be sporadic. I hope, as it unfolds, you will review and enjoy. **-_Aegle_**

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Like Riddles Etched In Stone

**_Prologue:_**

_The clinking of glasses reached Remus' ears as he passed brightly colored shops. It was an end to fear, and the Wizarding world was rejoicing its liberation._

Well, let them celebrate. Let them throw their parties, and drink their liquors, and run through the streets proclaiming freedom and redemption, but Remus Lupin wanted none of it, just like he hadn't wanted to attend funerals or linger in pubs frittering away precious money on temporary release….

What would they say? Well, that didn't matter. They weren't there to say it. He was his own governor, lost in the absence of authority. Jesus, he needed a drink…

Remus let out a laugh that wasn't really a laugh so much as a cynical and sardonic hack, a bark, and then quieted, drawing looks from ladies and gentlemen and children frolicking about in the winter streets of Diagon Alley. They were buying books and inkpots, spiced ciders and baked goods, warmth and cinnamon and packaged trinkets of happiness that were not a part of Remus' world of splintered gray. No, what he wanted was a good- no, no, _several- _drinks. Whiskey, gin, it didn't matter. It all burned and made his eyes bleary and Merlin save him he _liked_ it, because it made the view a little bit easier to bear.

They knew him, of course…the bar-owners. But, then again, who didn't? It had been all over the papers…snapshots and quotes and testimonies… it felt like being stripped, exposed, naked. Thanks be to the Boy who Lived, thanks be to a new peace, thank-you for providing so many toasts and excuses to be merry and joyful. Britain could come out of its hiding place and breathe a collective, breathy sigh of relief. Remus stumbled into a tavern, one he hadn't been into yet. He was already drunk. The bartender said nothing, and Remus thought that was just fine. He knew how he looked. His mirror, lying in shards back at the flat, told him what he needed to know. He hadn't liked the response very much. Madness was all opinion, anyway.

When he passed out, hours later and on the sidewalk in front of a Thai restaurant next to his flat, no one woke him. After all, sprawled on the ground with shadows under his eyes and ink-stained fingertips (someone had to sign the documents…his mother had been particularly hard to identify, even under the cold white light) Remus Lupin looked more like a heroin addict than a schoolteacher in training. Snowflakes fell on his face, soft, white, melting into waxen skin.

Three cheers for the fall of He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named, let us all be thankful for this time of peace and happiness.


	2. Beat of the Doldrums

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Like Riddles Etched In Stone

Disclaimer: Let it be known that I will not continually post this. I obviously do not own or profit from J. K. Rowling's _Harry Potter_.

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Author's Note: I had hoped to post this sooner, but life has been busy. Thank you for your reviews and please don't hesitate to ask questions or give feedback. Both are greatly appreciated, and I will try to answer questions either directly or through the story. Thank you.

-Aegle

Chapter One: Beat of the Doldrums

In retrospect, Remus Lupin thought idly, blacking out on an icy sidewalk had been fairly trivial in the scope of things, considering all that he had done in the past month. In fact, it was practically grand. Hadn't it solved the nagging problem of consciousness for a while? True enough, he had woken with rather a nasty bruise on the forehead, but that, he supposed, was the price one had to pay in these things. He might have been ashamed, perhaps even appalled, at himself one time not so long ago, but now, lying on a dingy mattress that squeaked and groaned with the slightest shift, Remus found that he felt no remorse for the act. For other things, yes, for nearly everything, but not for spending several hours with his face toward the sky in front of the Nakapan Thai House.

The other things, the things he hurt for and found himself constantly trying to escape, they chased like wild animals and left him panting. He often wondered when the ghost visions would fade away, because they were persistent- like smudges of grime on the backs of his eyelids. When he slept he saw them, heard them laughing, singing, screaming, and when he woke their imprints were still dancing about, much like the spots one saw after looking too hard and too long at the sun.

Endless hours of funeral speeches had left him bitter; he was tired of hearing how "honorably" someone had died, or even worse, how a life had been lost "for the cause." Now there wasn't a cause anymore, and Remus was beginning to question the reason they'd all been fighting in the first place. Wasn't it for safety? For happiness? Martyrs and heroes had been made, and somehow, one side had won, but to him, the ends didn't quite justify the means. He told himself, after leaving Peter's funeral, that every battle had losses. That was just _how it worked_. And even in the mornings, when his thinking was most clear, he still couldn't see how any of it made sense. Sirius wasn't a murderer- rebellious and prone to ending "relationships" in a matter of hours, yes, but after a while it became almost endearing.

Remus winced and rolled onto his side. He had thought of a killer as endearing.

A part of his mind felt this was unfair. After all, no matter what the circumstances, Sirius was still Sirius, still Padfoot, and still the person Remus had known from the time they'd been First Years. Yet, in a way, that person was dead. Locked away in Azkaban was a separate entity, not Sirius Black but some alien life that had taken over. Of course, Remus knew this was untrue, but it helped to think of it this way, if only a little.

There were car horns blaring beneath his window, unusual for so early in- he glanced at the wall clock. It was nearly noon. Well that explained it.

The days had melted together like hot plastic, and for a person so centered around order, it was remarkable how easily five o'clock became ten and each morning faded discreetly into evening. Most of his time was spent either at his flat or walking, which more often than not ended at a pub. That had been the result last night, and a larger ratio of the days before. And he would have taken the Knight Bus home, back to the shoddy flat in Dartmouth with swinging light bulbs and all manner of leaks and broken fixtures, but he'd spent his last Galleon on cheap whiskey (he didn't even _like _whiskey), and had consequently Apparated back to the city. It was amazing, he realized now, that he'd ended up relatively close to his home, and perhaps even more amazing that something hadn't gone terribly wrong on the trip. But, he supposed, he wouldn't have really cared if anything had.

Bed springs protested as he moved to stare at the ceiling. His stomach was still sore from vomiting through the remainder of the night, and now it gave an angry gurgle at having not been fed. The thought of food made Remus sick, and he would have likely thrown up again if there had been anything to expel. It was good though, he figured, as he couldn't afford to eat anyway. He closed his eyes. The sun coming in through the window was bright, and it hurt his head, but he was too tired to draw the curtains.

There were marks in the plaster walls where he'd attempted to put his fist through; he vaguely recalled this as someone rapped heavily on the door. He did not move. It was most likely the landlord, he assumed, a short Armenian man named Mourad or Murkad, or something similar- Remus couldn't remember which- and the visit was no doubt for money. There was no point in rushing the inevitable, Remus thought. The rent was late, and he didn't have the payment. So he stayed where he was. Eventually the knocking went away. The clock continued its ticking.

Twelve-thirty. That meant he could sleep for hours. The will reading wasn't until tomorrow anyway. The _will_. He almost laughed at the notion. What was left? Blackened ruins of his parents' house in Dover? Spectacular if one was planning a bonfire…a marshmallow roast perhaps. The idea stuck him as comical and he began to laugh- shaky outbursts that were hard to distinguish from sobs. More than anything he wanted to scream, but nothing came out, and so he swallowed barbed emotions that corroded from the inside out.

He'd identified his mother's body yesterday morning. The post had arrived early- or maybe it was late; he didn't care much for time these days- and in it a letter with a waxen seal, deep green and dignified. Remarkably harmless in appearance for a note explaining your parents' deaths, he'd thought. Well, it was all backlash, wasn't it? Voldemort had fallen but his followers had not. Oh, most had taken residence in Azkaban, it was true, but there were some who had begged off sentencing with galleons and good names. Voldemort would rise again, they thought, because it rationalized senseless killing. Remus' parents had been supporters of the Order, had been friends with most of its older members, in fact, so it was no surprise to wake up and read the letter. No, the shock had been largely in identification. Twenty-one years old and he'd barely recognized his mother and father- _Mum and Dad-_ when they'd lifted the coverings. "But all's fair"…said the adage, and it was just another death, no different than Lily or James or Peter's. Christ, no different than Sirius' if you wanted to be metaphorical.

Realization had hit hard for Remus, all the same. But window-diving was too messy and he wasn't dramatic enough for suicide anyway. Sometimes, though, at night, he leaned out of his bedroom window as far as he could without toppling over the ledge, let the wind ruffle his hair, and stared at the dark street below. Each time, however, he saw newspaper headlines like photographs in his head. "_Werewolf Suicide Increasing by Leaps and Bounds._" No. He couldn't have that.

And so what did he do? He sat through elegies and ignored nervous glances and avoided Armenian landlords. But he was never good at pretending. The stress showed; it made him look years older. Last week he'd noticed the first gray hairs. They were mixed in with the strands of brown and gold but they were there. Well, James had always said he'd go gray by thirty. He'd been generous on that one.

Quietly, he rose from the bed, floorboards creaking when his feet touched the ground. He was tired and gaunt, moving with a reserved sort of grace that a boy-just-turned-man shouldn't have possessed. In truth, Remus looked far older than anyone his age- he always had. Even in his Hogwarts days most had assumed him to be the eldest of his friends. Of course, assumptions often prove false, and it was only fitting that he should be the youngest. They had joked at about that, his friends. The youngest and probably the first to go, Moony, they had said, and Remus had secretly felt that they were right. He was practically drowning in the irony.

Remus' kitchen was filled with more books than the whole of his flat. The room served no better purpose than to accumulate old texts, and it was in the doorway that he paused to fight off his lightheadedness, leaning against the frame and running his fingers back through hair that was slightly too long. On the wobbly table near the wall were stacks of papers and rolled up maps- several had fallen to the floor and rested near the corner- shoved in between stacks of thick books. He noticed he still had a letter from Marlene McKinnon among the clutter. How long ago had she sent that? Eight months? Nine? It didn't matter. He couldn't believed he'd kept it. He'd not recalled turning into his father but most of the time

these things went by unnoticed. Or so they said.

He couldn't remember what the letter had been about, but he knew he'd received it shortly before she and her family had been slain by Death Eaters in Inverness. He'd been fond of her. Sirius had been fonder. He sighed.

Most of the papers were from his apprenticeship. He'd given that up when the war and the Order became too demanding, and along with it, his income. Remus had worked for Angus Burnham since the summer after leaving Hogwarts, furthering his studies. Burnham had retired from teaching before Remus had learned his first spell, and consequently most of Remus' time was spent listening to the man reminiscing about the past. His favorite topic- and Remus' least- had been student misbehavior. Angus was a traditional wizard, set in his ways and still steaming over the "loss of respect" in Britain's youth. He often talked about these things while looking at Remus over the rims of his glasses, as though sharing some dirty secret. Candidly, Remus couldn't stand the old man, bored with his lectures and irritated with his philosophies. Yet, he had provided Remus with the materials he'd needed to increase his knowledge of the Dark Arts, and in all probability it was this that had kept him alive until now. Burnham had found him an acceptable student, and paid him small earnings to translate texts Burnham himself could no longer see properly, among other odd jobs. This salary had kept Remus afloat, and he could have gone back, could have asked for the job, but he found he didn't want to anymore than he wanted to think about deaths and debts.

_So leave,_ said his instincts. _Go._

For some time now he'd thought about doing just that. Pack up the personals and head out the door. Why did it matter if he didn't know where he was going? Surely it was better than living life in a stupor and waking up on street corners, hung-over and pathetic. There were other places, places other than England and all of its phantoms. Memories followed, he knew that, but to get away from people who knew you and murmured pleasantries with feigned, toothy smiles would offer some small relief. Increasingly, people had started to look like they were wearing masks, and Remus had long since grown weary of hushed whispers behind great Cheshire grins. And, feeling slightly less downtrodden, he cleared off a chair, reached for a map, and with a soft exhalation, spread it out before him.


	3. Crossing La Manche

**_Like Riddles Etched In Stone_**

_Disclaimer: _I neither own nor profit from J. K. Rowling's Harry Potter. Her characters and world belongto her and her publishing gurus.

_Author's Note:_ Well, I finally got around to posting another chapter. I know it's been too long and it will most likely go unread, but here it is. Writing for writing's sake. I didn't abandon the story--I will not abandon it. However, updates may be at random times, after two days or after two months. Time has truly become an issue for me. Wish I had more of it, but there you go. We all do. Anyway, if you choose to read this, I must say it's quite different from my other stuff. It's also more true to how I perceive Rowling's world. I'd really appreciate your reviews--what you like/hate/laughed at/raised an eyebrow at/think I should work on, etc. By the way, if any of you out there have heard any of Damien Rice's music, it's really influenced the mood of this chapter. That and some old Louis Armstrong. What a combination…

_**Chapter Two: Crossing La Manche**_

_It's a small room, and there are many bodies, creating a sense of warmth and Christmas cheer that extends to nearly everyone._

On his bed in Dartmouth, Remus moaned in his sleep.

He stands in the corner, listening to Marlene McKinnon with a poor facade of attentiveness. She's smart and quite charming, but he's not noticing this at the moment. She touches his arm--a simple gesture made easier by the champagne she's been drinking. Remus is indifferent. There's a loud laugh from across the room, temporarily covering the fast, big band tune wailing from an old radio--Dizzy Gillespie, he thinks it might be-- and he knows it's Sirius. He's been chatting up some blonde for nearly an hour and she's buying into every one of his tricks. She's not his type, but from the look of it, he doesn't really care. He glances up at Remus, raises his mug of cider, and grins at Marlene, who gives a little nod and surveys the rest of the guests. She makes a comment Remus normally would have chuckled at, and though they share the same sense of humor he doesn't feel like laughing. Tonight, he's blind to the woman at his side. Eventually Sirius will win her over, not because she fancies him more and not because she doesn't want Remus. It's just that he's too hard to attain. Sirius, on the other hand, is persistent. Until the morning after, at least.

Tires squealed beneath his window, the roar of urban lions. He rolled over a little, a thin body in a faded linen cocoon. His hands clutched at the pillow--and then he quieted.

Peter is late, which is typical. He comes bustling in at breakneck, flustered speed, buried under presents that are falling from his arms in every direction. His cheeks are red from the cold, his nose glowing. And he's wearing that scarf his mum bought him during Sixth Year--a macabre yellow thing with jingling bells at the ends. James makes a joke about being fashionably late, and asks who the girl is. Peter, turning a deeper shade of red, shrugs and stammers that there is no girl. Remus knows it's the truth. For Pete, there'd been no girls since Addie Henson, and that had been…Merlin, almost three years ago. He thinks Peter might be a bit of a poof, come to think of it. And here we go, James is cracking progressively worse jokes, while Peter stands there looking about ready to piss himself. Remus considers intervening; telling James to bugger off and go find something useful to do, but he's spotted the very person he's been trying so hard to ignore.

_He's avoided her all night. Lily. She's over talking to Frank Longbottom and a new recruit to the Order named Alice. The girl is young…barely out of school and she looks a bit nervous. Remus feels like telling her to turn the hell around and leave this place. No one that small- dressed in a jumper with a happy, grinning snowman, no less- should be in a resistance movement. Lily smiles at Alice reassuringly--how does she do that so well?-- and says something Remus can't make out, and as she turns she catches his eye, the smile faltering for just a moment. There is an unspoken conversation going on; no one detects it through the wreaths and garland. She turns her glance instead to Peter and begins helping him unload presents, which of course means James helps as well. Remus raises an eyebrow. Just slightly. Marlene continues to talk._

_Later, in the quiet of the kitchen, it is she who finds him. He can hear the hum of conversation as the door swings open, and then, silence. _

"Amazing." His back is to hers. He's watching the snow falling outside through the windowpanes. He hates the winter. "I actually thought we'd get through the whole night without speaking to one another."

"In an ideal world, Remus." Lily replies. Her voice is flat in the still room, and he can almost feel her frown as she speaks. She laughs, frustrated. It makes him a little sick, because that sound, a bit sarcastic and a bit worn, is his. He can't believe no one else has noticed. He turns and sees her standing straight-backed, somewhat defensive, but at least, thank God, not hostile.

_"Right," he mutters lamely. He had something planned, something elegant and haughty that's gone stale in this atmosphere. No time for speeches tonight…not from him, at least. And so he observes her in silence, searching for sentences and recalling how simple it used to be, times when he could stand in a similar manner and feel his pulse quicken from _looking _at her. Ah, well, fuck it, it was over. Nothing much to be done now. _

"Foolish idea, coming here tonight," he says, glancing to the door as it opens just a crack--a tipsy guest looking for the loo, perhaps--and then closes, abandoned. When silence settles again he continues: " I should go."

_Her eyes have settled on the floor, and when she makes no response he nods to himself. It is as good an affirmation as any. He could tell her, he thinks, right now, all of the things he wants to say. The whys and what ifs and poor, petty excuses that sounded so logical before. Because of James, …because he loves you; he's always loved you. Because he's a mate. Because this is how it ends and we can all go home relatively unharmed. Because. That's why. _

He sighs. It shouldn't be too hard to make an exit. Moony's just a bit tired. James and Sirius will fuss a little and give him the "Why Aren't You Letting Us Help You?" speech, and eventually let him go out the door. He won't think about Marlene. Sirius will probably notice her as he leaves later in the night, his blonde companion clinging to his arm, and that will be that. Sirius, canine as he is, loves the chase.

As Remus walks past Lily, toward the kitchen door and the yellow bar of light shining underneath, she catches him by the sleeve. Her pupils are large in the darkness, still trying to adjust to the lack of light. She does not see him as he sees her, with eyes that are wide and completely human. He wonders, what would be different now, if he hadn't let her go. Perhaps nothing would change at all.

"Remus-"

"Congratulations on your engagement," he tells her, regaining a sense of stiff formality.

His cuff is released, followed shortly by: "Don't be so sodding cold, Lupin. It doesn't suit you."

"Not really any of your concern, is it?" He hadn't realized how childish he could be until now, and part of him is cringing in self-disgust. The other part feels a sadistic glow of triumph at the crestfallen look on her face. Score two points for Remus Lupin. Good God.

He knows he's succeeded in destroying anything left between them, because now she's not even angry. He would have been relieved if she had called him a daft bastard and walked out, but she's not doing anything. And, he realizes, she's not going to. It's absurd, really, the situation. He could almost laugh. Six months ago an argument would have ended in tangled bed sheets--now he knows with a certain hollowness that it is_ over. "Time to find a new bird, eh?" as Sirius would say. Christ, she isn't even _mad_. He sees her lips press together tightly, almost as if she thinks that it's going to keep her from losing it right in front of him. Remus is no stranger to crying women. He's seen plenty of them throughout his life. Mum's favorite pass-time, it seemed. But he's never seen her react like this, and the frailness catches him off guard. Stupidly, his body moves in response and he reaches out, unthinking, to touch her-- _

The buzz of the doorbell woke him, and he lifted his head groggily, still seeing dark kitchens and red hair. In the hall, someone was pacing--he could hear floorboards creak--and the buzz sounded again. Remus closed his eyes, letting his head fall back resignedly onto the pillow. "Bugger _off_," he murmured into the fabric. If he stayed like this, he could probably suffocate…

"Mr. Lupin, are you in?" Another buzz. "Mr. Lupin?"

Remus sighed, slipping out from his tangle of covers and massaging the bridge of his nose. He felt ill, even worse in his sobriety. He seriously considered digging the empty bottle of Ogden's out of the trash bin in the hope that there might be a few drops gone to waste.

"It's Gladys Derbyshire, from down the hall. I noticed you were…ah…moving out-" the voice paused as the door swung open, and he was faced with a plump sixty-ish woman with stringy gray hair. Her mouth twitched a bit as she looked at him, and she fidgeted with her housecoat awkwardly.

"Yes?"

His voice was scratchy from sleep, and he knew how he must have appeared, unshaven and gaunt. He couldn't remember when he'd last showered.

"I-erm…right," she mumbled, stealing not-so-discreet glances around him into his flat. He figured she got a fairly good look at the shredded papers that littered his floors. Some were sticking to the hardwood in places. The flat, he knew, smelled like whisky and vomit, and judging from the way she wrinkled her nose, so did he. That was fine. He'd decided to quit drinking…at least for now. The decision had been purely economic. No money equaled no booze.

The woman was still bobbing her head around his frame, and Remus contemplated turning around and closing the door in her face, but instead he repeated: "_Yes_?"

"Oh, well, as I said, I'd noticed that you seem to be…moving-" another peek into the flat "-and I was wondering if perhaps you had any…erm…items which you wished to get rid of?"

"No, I'm afraid not," he replied, starting to retreat.

"Tea kettles, spice racks, anything of the sort?"

"No, sorry."

"You're sure-"

"Quite sure."

"Well, good-"

He closed the door, irritated. He'd dreamt of her again. The Christmas party--Lily with her damned laugh, her smile. He'd played the villain that night. He'd been the one to go home alone. She, of course, had spent the night in James' arms, probably smiling the same smile he hadn't been able to get out of his head for the last four years.

Footsteps grew fainter in the hall--Gladys returning to her lair. On the rare mornings that Remus happened to pass by the woman's flat, there oozed from behind the walls the sugary bleating of her singing…which was mainly inflicted upon her cats. He had unfortunately met one of the monsters (Lulabelle, as it was called) when it had decided to skitter out from her open door in a madcap assault on his life. Probably sensing the wolf, he'd thought initially, but somehow he felt the animal had been trying harder to get away from Gladys than to mangle a werewolf.

"Spice racks," he muttered out loud, glancing back at the door warily. "_Spice racks_."

It was nearing evening, and the oranges and reds of sunset were making patterns on the kitchen linoleum. He leaned against the sink, ignoring the icy floor and the _thump boom_ of someone's radio as another car drove by below. His throat was dry.

He didn't know exactly why he kept dreaming of Lily. He thought it might be some form of punishment. He couldn't remember the exact shade of her eyes, but there were other things. Things that never left. The way she smelled, the way her hands felt on his skin. And he hated it, especially on those mornings when he woke with a hard on from a damned _ghost_. But he was too afraid to erase his own memory. So much for Gryffindor courage.

What a sorry lot they'd all turned out to be. Three dead, one imprisoned, and the other an unemployed alcoholic. It was all fine, though. He planned on leaving it behind, as much as anyone can run from the past. And he already knew where he was going, so that was a plus, wasn't it? He had a _plan_, and certainly it was better than slowly starving to death in Dartmouth. Or going insane. Although, insanity might have it benefits. At least he'd have three squares a day at St. Mungo's.

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A few months ago, had he dared to take a stroll through Knockturn Alley at night, there was a great possibility that one of two scenarios would have occurred, the first being that he would have been mugged. The second, and probably more realistic of the two, was that he would have been beaten and mugged. Now, however, as he sauntered past storefronts with his head ducked to fight off the cold, he rather blended in with the regular nocturnal crowd. 

There were no festive Christmas lights glowing along the narrow stretch of cobblestone street. Carolers weren't gathered in clusters singing about pie and ribbons. So different was this winding alleyway that it was hard to believe it was at all connected to the overly decorated Diagon Alley, just a few turns and corners back. The only glow Remus felt was from the murky light filtering out through grime-smeared windows of the alley's array of shops. The names were vaguely familiar, but he supposed it didn't really matter. All of the shops seemed to be selling the same things. He passed a sign that read: "_Need hemlock? See owner_." It was hanging slightly askew, weighted down with snow. Nearby, an older wizard was sitting against one of the high walls that loomed over the path, apparently ignoring the snow falling around him. The cigarette between his lips was not burning, but he held it between the cracked skin as though it didn't matter. He glanced up at Remus when he walked by, mumbling to himself in a low whisper. Remus tugged his coat closer to his body, wondering if the muttering wizard would simply freeze to death in the cold. He certainly showed no signs of going anywhere at the moment.

A few doors down was the entrance to The Gorgon. Icicles hung from the sign, directly below the charred wood lettering. If Bodge didn't show…

The thick odor of sweat and perfume hit him as he opened the door, and he almost longed for the biting cold as he stepped into the crowded tavern. He should have suggested the Leaky, really, but too many familiar faces lurked there and he wasn't quite sure he could deal with questions and small talk. He scanned the room. A bartender was wiping greasy mugs with an equally greasy looking rag, and every once in a while he would pause from his duty and use the cloth to scrub at the filth covering the bar top. Three raucous wizards were singing loudly in the corner, one of their compatriots passed out on the floor and snoozing soundly as the puddle of drool around him expanded. The thickest of the three singers reached out to grab a particularly large-breasted woman carrying a tray of drinks. His arm was clutched around her waist and he was laughing wildly, disregarding her look of indignation. Remus glanced up as someone whistled from his right.

Andagellus Bodger sat across the room, leaning back on the two legs of his wobbly wooden chair. The dealer wiggled his eyebrows at Remus from over his boots where they sat propped up on the table. Remus nodded and made his way over to the older man, dodging chairs and bar patrons.

"'Lo, there, sweetheart," he said, grinning widely. "You look like shit."

Remus took a chair across from the wizard, muttering, "I do try."

"It shows."

He eyed the pint of bitter sitting in front of Bodger, resting his elbows on the table. Bodger pushed it toward him, adding, "You need this more than I do, mate." Remus contemplated it for a moment before pushing it back, evoking a look of surprise from the man sitting across from him. Bodger shrugged, and then took a long drink, some of the dark liquid trickling down the black stubble on his jaw.

"So, do you-" Remus' words were cut off as a warm body plopped into his lap, and he found himself with a witch sitting squarely on his thighs.

"Ooh, who's this one, Bodgy?" cooed a syrupy voice. The woman wiggled around a bit, looking at Remus from under mascara-heavy eyelashes. She smelled strongly of talcum powder.

"Remus Lupin," Bodger said absently from behind his glass, waving a hand toward Remus. The woman smiled, and her lips looked like wax. "Looks a bit ashy, dunnit he?" she murmured, examining Remus' face as though he were some sort of marble statue.

"Mmm, well, as much fun as _this_ is," Remus muttered, irritated, "I haven't the time to-"

"Listen, love," she cut him off, raising a pair of penciled-in eyebrows, "I see a lot of blokes come in 'ere, but not a one of em' looking as uptight as yourself. So 'ere's what we're gonna do. You're gonna tell me what you want to drink, and I'm gonna get it for ya."

Bodger grunted, settling back down on the floor and holding back a laugh. "How he can speak's gonna' be a wonder, Marie, with you sittin' on him."

"Piss off," she grumbled, waving a hand back in the man's direction. "Now, what is it you want?"

"Same as me," Bodger said, and before Remus could open his mouth, " and don't ever say I'm not a generous old sod." Marie snorted loudly, rolling her eyes upward as she slid off Remus' thighs. The woman moved off toward the bar, swaying her hips in an exaggerated manner as she passed a group of wizards that had just come in through the door.

Remus leaned back in the chair. "Jesus."

"Not round these parts, mate," Bodger muttered, plonking his glass on the table. "'S a bit better, now though, I reckon. What with You-Know-Who out of the picture. Course, some of the shops are suffering from it." He grinned, revealing yellowing teeth, and scratched at his head. "Every once in a while, you see some people celebratin'. But when you live like rats, not much changes. Still the same ol' place, same ol' life, you know?"

"Yeah," Remus nodded, growing quiet. He stared at his hands, folded on the table. When he looked up, Bodger was eyeing him with interest.

"Past the point of getting shitfaced, eh?" he asked, quirking his eyebrows.

"What?"

"You've got the 'end it all' look in your eye. Just wondering if you were gonna go through with it. I mean, I don't reckon you will. But, just asking."

"Fuck off, Bodger," Remus groaned, resting his forehead in his hands. He looked up at the sound of glass against wood. Ah, alcohol.

"Yeh let me know, if you need anything," Marie said, more to Remus than to Bodger. Remus nodded, brushing his fingers over the smooth surface of the glass.

"So then, as long as you're not killin' yourself yet, how about showin' us those tomes?"

* * *

It had been a fair trade, really. Remus' books for Bodger's galleons. Never mind that they were centuries old, never mind that they were, in fact, Remus's most valued possessions. His father had given them to him and he had done the only thing he could do: sell them. It wasn't as if Dad were alive to shake his head. After all, what use would he have of them, really? It would be just more luggage to cart. And besides, he liked traveling light. He supposed. 

At least he was able to pay off the landlord. He'd given the money to him earlier in the day, watching as the man counted it out and recounted again, forever scowling with those dark, furry eyebrows as if he was just itching for the chance to demand more. But he hadn't been able to in the end, and Remus had left the flat as he had entered it, empty and dismal.

Bodger had eyed him skeptically the other night, when Remus had told him of his plans to leave England. "Won't be any better any place else, you know," he'd said. "And where are you gonna go?"

"France," he'd answered simply.

"You speak the language, Lupin?"

"A bit."

"Well good luck to you. I knew a French gal, one time. Bloody fucking insane, she was. Named Louise. Used to scream at the moon. Bit touched in the head, if you asked me."

Remus frowned, considering the implications. A Muggle candy bar wrapper blew past his feet, skirting along the pavement and out toward the water's edge. The ferry to Calais was not leaving for another fifteen minutes, but he could already see the crowd on board. He'd not wanted to come to Dover. It would have been just fine with him if he'd not entered the sea-town for the rest of his life.

The smell of salt water was heavy, but familiar. Everything was familiar. Boat horns, the crashing of waves, the taste of the air. He thought he could still smell smoke.

What a sight it had been, to see the house he'd grown up in reduced to blackened remnants. The frame had been left partially in tact and he'd been able to make out rooms, standing there with his mouth closed firmly and his hands shoved into his pockets. He couldn't remember how long he'd stayed, just _staring _while the wind picked up and blew ashes onto his coat and face and hair. But he'd had to see it. He couldn't just leave the town like it hadn't happened. And so, after the will reading, he'd made the walk to the little house not far from town. It had looked so out of place, sitting there angrily against the background. It must have been, he thought, similar to the way Lily and James' home had looked, after it had been hit. Only in this case, there was no screaming baby in the rubble. There was absolutely nothing remarkable about his childhood home, and certainly no life rescued from the ashes. He hadn't felt cold, really, when he'd gone that day, even though the sea was blowing in cold air and the sane citizens were staying inside their homes, huddling around fireplaces. He'd wondered if someone could become immune to grief. And while he wondered this, he'd wished that he could cry, because at least he could _feel_ tears. But he hadn't.

He shifted his weight as he stood in a queue at the dock, waiting as the woman in front of him paid a red-cheeked booth-worker her fare. Her son was tugging at her purse, making it slide down her shoulder inch by inch. She pulled it up, he pulled it down. She was trying to count out exact change, all the while scolding, "Henry! Henry!" to the young boy. The child glanced up at Remus, smiling a toothy grin, his mouth full of pearly white baby teeth. It was bizarre, Remus thought, that while adults gave him shifty glances from behind newspapers, children seemed fascinated by him automatically.

"My name's Henry," the boy said, forgetting the joy of irritating his harassed-looking mother. He couldn't have been over six, Remus guessed. "What's yours?"

"Remus."

"That's a funny name," Henry giggled, earning a look of horror from his mother, who'd managed to secure two places on the ferry. She looked at Remus in embarrassment, taking her son by the hand. "Very sorry about that, sir," she sighed, leading Henry away quickly. Remus smiled a little, stepping up to pay his fare. Children were great, in his opinion. Little lunatics with wide eyes and an amazing ability to absorb knowledge. Practically sponges. "Little wankers, more like," Sirius had often remarked. "Why anyone would want a drooling, crying, constantly shitting nightmare is beyond me." Of course, the second Harry was born he'd practically been at the Hollow every day, and more times than once Remus had seen him tear up when the baby had fallen asleep in its crib. Harry never seemed to fuss around Sirius, for some reason. Remus had only held Harry a few times; once when he'd been born, and after that only when James was in fits because he couldn't get the child to stop crying. It had been amusing to see the look of relief and then irritation on James' face when Remus calmed the baby, walking about with him and talking in low tones. Eventually, James learned, and with this skill increasing, Remus had less and less of a reason to drop by the home. Sometimes when he was out, he would stop to see Harry, always intrigued by the baby's innocence in their quickly collapsing world. But a child's trust, like an adult's, can often be ill placed. Perhaps Sirius had not been so fond of children after all. He'd certainly made it seem easy to sell out his friends.

Remus took a seat inside the ferry's windowed compartment, near the back where it was the least crowded. He wanted a drink…badly. Instead, however, he leaned his head against the cold window and closed his eyes, waiting to move. He didn't have a clue as to what he would do once he made it to France. Probably get that drink somewhere. And after that…he would figure that out when the time came. For now, he just wanted to leave. Farewell England, you cold bitch.

"Remus?"

He turned as he heard the voice behind him, finding Henry on his knees in the booth attached to his. "Hi. Where's your mum?"

"Reading."

"Ah."

The boy pointed across the cabin, to where his mother was engrossed in the tabloids.

"Have you ever been to France, Henry?"

"No. We're supposed to meet Dad there. He's in Bull-on-Ya."

"You mean Boulogne?"

"Yeah." He leaned his head to the side, glancing at Remus' satchel. "Why are you going to France?"

"For a change, I suppose."

The boy nodded, looking up at Remus again. "Won't you miss everyone here?"

"I suppose I will," Remus lied, feeling his stomach clench a little. Make that two drinks when he arrived.

"Yeah," the boy said again. Remus gazed out to the waves, watching them roll upon each other as the ferry began to move. "You see the Channel out there, Henry?" Remus asked, and the boy nodded. "In France, it's called La Manche. It means 'the sleeve.'"

The boy looked out his window, murmuring, "The sleeve."

"Mm-hmm. We are crossing La Manche."


End file.
